


A Stupid High School Tradition Called Prom

by ERD_Fiction



Category: South Park
Genre: Christophe DeLorne Is An Asshole, Cute, F/M, Gay European Children, High School, M/M, Prom, This Ship Is Barely Alive But God Dammit I Will Keep It Afloat Myself If I Have To, gregstophe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 14:16:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16518059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ERD_Fiction/pseuds/ERD_Fiction
Summary: Christophe's reaction was predictable. The Frenchman gave him a skeptical look. And he closed the door in Gregory's face.Warning: May Contain Excess of Gay European Children





	A Stupid High School Tradition Called Prom

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so, uh, I guess I wrote this like two or three years ago and posted it on The Fan Fiction Site We Must Not Name, and I figured maybe it could get some traction here?
> 
> Sorry for any piss-poor French in this fic. Google Translate, baby.

South Park was a hormone-driven mess.

Every single teen was scrambling left and right, trying to find this, that, and the other thing. She was wearing red so he had to wear maroon, he had to find a tux, where was her bright purple limo, and so on and so forth. Couples were breaking up and getting back together like crazy. It was hard to keep up half the time. One minute, Bebe was going with Clyde, the next, she was hooking up with Jimmy, then Sally was with Jimmy, there was an entire confusing affair with Tammy, Kenny, and Bradley on who would be taking who to the prom.

And as usual, Craig was flipping people off, Tweek was mentally breaking down, Cartman was pissing off everyone, and chaos was ripping apart the town.

And the Frenchman hated every second of it. Though it’s not much of a surprise. He despised everything about this town. He hated the redneck society. He hated the fact that it was American. He hated the fact that the total GPA for the entire town was less than a 1.4. He hated the adults, he hated the kids, he hated the fact that there was literally nothing to do in South Park…the only decent thing about this town was the soil. And it was frozen half the time, so his tunnel digging days were limited to when weather permitted it.

Prom, to him, just seemed like a chance for girls to stack three layers of make-up on their face and dress formally, while the guys only paid so much for a chance to get laid. Already, you could hear Clyde bragging about how, after tonight, he wouldn’t die a virgin. There was no need to lose sleep on that, though. Just wait a few seconds and Bebe will break up with him again.

The brunette didn’t plan on renting a tuxedo. He didn’t plan on cleaning himself off and combing down his hair. He didn’t plan for his foster family—who really could care less if he went or not—to stand him on the doorsteps with his date and take too many pictures. All he planned on doing was locking himself in his room and sleeping. He might feel motivated enough to pop in a movie and pass out on the couch. But he certainly didn’t plan on going to prom.

Gregory knew all of this. Two days before prom, he knew all of this. He knew as he walked up the stony steps of Christophe’s house, with the small envelope in his hands. He knew this as he smoothed down his hair right before the teen’s foster mother answered the door. He knew all of this as he walked up the stairs and to his friend’s room. They’ve talked about how much they hated the way the girls were scrambling around in the town, and how desperately the boys were to shove their dick into one of them.

Which made it almost hard for him to believe his own words.

“Would you consider being my date for prom?”

Christophe’s reaction was predictable.

The Frenchman gave him a skeptical look. And he closed the door in Gregory’s face.

Gregory sighed, expecting as much. Things have been tense lately—what, with the two teens having almost an under-the-radar relationship to avoid the crowd gossip. In their homes, alone in the school bathrooms, in abandoned dark alleyways, they were something that could almost resemble a couple. But publically, the two of them were in no way, shape, or form romantically involved. Neither of them really wanted to become the latest front page story of the school. He could see the headline now. ‘All Children From Europe Declared Gay’. Narrow-minded pricks.

At the same time…Senior prom is an experience that only happens once in a life time. Gregory desperately wanted to go. And he’d rather not spend the evening with some girl who probably had a condom shoved down the bra of her shirt, hoping for a lucky night afterwards. Besides…he’d like to spend the evening with someone he cared about.

And buying two of these damn tickets cost him a fortune. SOMEONE was going to pay, one way or another. He opened the door.

“Look, hear me out, alright?” the English boy muttered, exasperated, finding the dirt-covered boy lying on his bed, relaxed. Christophe looked up at him with a slight look of surprise.

“Waeet. You we’e se’eeous?” Oh great. The Frenchman hadn’t even considered the possibility that he would like to go. Well, wasn’t this going swimmingly?

“Yes, Christophe, crazy as it seems, I would like to go to senior prom,” he sighed.

“All you’ve done zees past few weeks eez complaeen about ‘ow you ‘ate ze d’ama of p’om. What, weeth ze gi’ls and zei’ make-up, ze d’esses, ‘ow expenseeve eet eez...” Christophe muttered, brushing him off in a bored manner.

“Well, I’m not asking a bloody girl, I’m asking you!” he snapped back. “Or would you rather I take one of them instead?”

Christophe sat up, holding his hands up defensively. “Calm you’ teets, G’eg. You neve’ told me you wanted to go.”

“Well, I do. And I am asking you, Christophe DeLorne, as a friend, as your boyfriend, as whatever the hell you want to call it, to be my date,” he responded flatly, trying to mask that Christophe is slowly tramping on his hopes for the perfect prom night.

Christophe sighs, closing his dead-looking eyes for a few moments. Then, he sits himself up, gripping his hands, twiddling his thumbs. He muttered darkly, “You do ‘ealize zat, to pull a sma’t-ass stunt like zees…people a’e goeeng to talk.”

“And? Since when have you cared about other people’s opinion?” Gregory pointed out. Christophe chuckled slightly.

“Fai’ enough. But zat’s not what you saeed befo’e.”

“Things are different.”

“Steell.” The Frenchman still seemed just as dismissive as ever. Gregory scowled.

“Look, we don’t have to go as dates or anything. It’s not like we’ll be making out in front of every damn person there. You think I’m that stupid?”

“Non, non, I’ve been fo’beedeen to theenk zat,” the brunette responded, narrowing his eyes playfully. “Eef I ‘ea’ you say you’ ove’sized GPA one mo’e time, I might punch you een ze balls.”

“My point exactly,” Gregory responded, a hint of frost in his tone. “Just…come with me as a friend, alright? It’s just one night. And…these tickets cost an awful lot.” His desperation and frustration were starting to shine through.

Christophe stared into him, his face blank. Gregory hated it when he did this. He hated the way that the teenage mercenary could look so apathetic while deciding. Would it kill him to show a little emotion now and then? All he wanted was some sort of hint of confliction on his face, a clear yes, a clear no, anything…!

Eventually, he did stand up. Gregory felt his hopes rise in his chest again. Oh, goodness, he was turning into them, wasn’t he? One of those stupid air-headed preps who asks a good-looking guy to prom and eagerly awaits his answer. He keeps himself composed; his masculinity is on the line.

Christophe walked over to the British boy and puts his hands on the boy’s arms. Gregory stared at him, hoping that he doesn’t look as pathetic as he think he might. Christophe sighed, and gave the boy a rare, almost sweet kiss on the forehead. He pulled away quickly and murmured, “I’ll theenk about eet.”

…He’ll think about it. He’ll think about just sitting at home and missing one of the biggest events in their entire high school career. One, the blonde might add, that he just wasted a good chunk of his bank account on acquiring.

He narrowed his eyes, expressing his displeasure at Christophe’s answer. “You’ll think about it.”

“Oui.”

“Christophe DeLorne…”

The teen frowned at him. “Oi. I’ll get you you’ answe’ befo’e ze stupeed dance.”

Gregory glared at him for a few moments. For anyone, that was a less than satisfactory answer. But, what could he do? Christophe was always stubborn about these kinds of things. Even so, it was hard to be thankful that the Frenchman was even considering their offer. It was more disappointing than anything.

Well, that’s life. Besides, Christophe wouldn’t keep him waiting. He’d have his answer soon enough.

“Fine…” he muttered grumpily.

* * *

He waited for Christophe’s answer. He waited for the rest of the day. He waited all of the next day, too. The frustrating brunette still didn’t respond. Neurotically, Gregory checked his phone every hour, on the hour—and sometimes two or three more times. He looked at his inbox thrice that day, he checked his messages, he even offered to go get the mail. Not one word.

It was all but killing him.

It didn’t help that Christophe avoided him for the most part in school. Even in the classes they had together, Gregory hardly saw him. Part of the reason might be that the decided to skip math class, probably to hang out and smoke in the bathroom. But that’s not what bothered him. It bothered him that the damn idiot wouldn’t answer his question. For Christ’s sake, how hard was it to just say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’?!

The day of the dance, there was still no answer. He even called him, both in the morning, and after school. All he got was an irritated, half-asleep reply in the morning telling him—in incredibly crude French—to ‘shut the fuck up and let me sleep you good for nothing son of a bitch’. He didn’t even pick up after school. His phone went right to voicemail. Gregory stared down at the phone, listening to the recorded voice telling him blankly that the teen’s phone was off. He didn’t even bother leaving a message. He should just take the answer for what it was—clearly if Christophe didn’t feel the need to reply, he didn’t think it was worth his time to even consider the dance.

He sighed, closing his phone. Oh well. He had a paper to write…

Trudging up to his room, he managed to avoid his parents for the most part. Though he did hear his mother murmur to his father, “He’ll be late if he doesn’t get going soon…”

He didn’t have the heart to tell them that he wasn’t going. He didn’t have the heart to try to convince himself that he was going, for God’s sake. All he felt like doing was curling up on his bed with his laptop and putting the finishing touches on his philosophy paper.

He snatched the computer off the charger and sat down on his bed, quickly turning it on and opening up the document. He quickly edited up his paper. And then his resume. Pretty soon, his college essays were edited too, and a third written up. All the while he kept up on the latest drama online. Bebe had yet again broken up with Clyde last second. Oh, no, wait, according to the latest notification, they were back together. Now Token was having trouble finding his tie. Hannah was sobbing over her make-up. Jennifer was about to scream at Charlie for not having her hot pink limo ready—turns out, it was a disgusting shade of salmon pink that, ‘clearly clashed with her hot pink dress’. Which was disgusting to start with, Gregory added to himself silently.

Five hours to the dance. Then four. Three. Two. Gregory picked up his phone, about to call again, but deciding against it. It was that simple; he just wasn’t going. He sighed, and wondered to himself what his mother was cooking for dinner.

Around five-thirty, the doorbell rang.

“Gregory, dear, could you get that?!” his mother called from the kitchen. “Your father’s fixing the pipes in the bathroom, and I’m waist deep in bread crumbs…!”

“Of course!” he responded, reluctant as he was to leave his room. He ruefully put his laptop down and stood up, stretching a bit before walking to out of his room, down the stairs, and to the door. He pulled it open.

What stood behind it was not what he expected.

There he was, dressed to the nines in a black tuxedo, with a light blue collared undershirt, a light brown vest, and a black tie. For once in his life, his face betrayed no traces of dirt or dust, and though his hair as still a bit of a mess, there was a hint of an attempt, displayed by the small traces of hair gel and water dashing through it. His shoes could use a bit of polish, too. But he stood there, smirking his traditional smirk, holding out a bouquet of white roses.

“Bonjour,” he greeted the stunned teen.

Gregory stared for a few moments in disbelief. He didn’t call, didn’t give him any notification. He just decided to show up two hours before the prom, giving him barely enough time to get ready. Of course he would.

He eventually did return the teens smile, muttering, “You son of a bitch…” before pulling him into a loose hug. Christophe returned it, careful not to damage the flowers.

“Eet would be a shame eef all of your college funds went eento zees dance and you deedn’t even go,” he teased.

“You gave me two hours, you bastard…!” he managed, between his laughter. Oh, dear Lord, he was going to prom. In this one moment, he didn’t care how stupid he had to sound. He had been waiting a good three months for this. Not only that, but he was going with the one other person from South Park who was decent enough to have a civil conversation with without him feeling the need to shove a dictionary down their throat.

Christophe pulled away from the embrace quickly, pointing back upstairs. “Zen get a move on eet, unless you want to be late…!”

Gregory nodded, and bolted back upstairs.

He rushes around for an hour, throwing off his clothes, taking a record-breaking shower, tossing together his outfit, trying to find the right bow tie, and slicking down his hair into its usual neat form, cursing the Frenchman the entire way for giving him such little time to prepare. He listened anxiously for any sound of a commotion from the living room, praying his parents approved of his prom date, who had a habit of doing nasty little things that leave lasting impressions on people. This would be the first night they formally met him…

Eventually, he looks himself one more time in the mirror. Gray tuxedo, blue undershirt, darker gray vest, matching dark grey bowtie, black shoes. His hair had a few strands lose here and there, but it added to the look. His face was bright, and his tie was crooked. He frowns briefly as he fixes it, giving himself one final look over. Should he have gone with the black?

Oh, no, he wasn’t turning into them. He looked fine—he hoped. He only prayed his peers and his parents would agree. And his date for prom, of course.

Speaking of which, he should go downstairs to make sure the brunette isn’t ruining his first impression.

He quickly trots downstairs, only to find his parents smiling and laughing with Christophe, who sits politely on the couch across from them. His mother looks up at him, smiling with a bit more pep between her teeth than usual.

“Oh, Gregory, you look absolutely divine…!” she exclaimed, eying her child up and down, admiring what a handsome young man he’s grown to be. He smiles at her, a bit embarrassed, but mostly flattered. His father nods in agreement. And it might’ve been the lighting playing tricks on him, but it almost looked like Christophe nodded too.

His mother jumps up and trots over, throwing her arms around her boy. She whispers into his ear, “Christophe is such a delight…! He’s a fine gentleman, his manners are excellent, and he’s able to keep a conversation going with ease!”

Who is the man you were just talking to and what did he do with my boyfriend.

“I’m glad you approve, mother,” was his only reply. If she wanted to believe that he had a kind, clever, good boy boyfriend, then he’d let her believe that. No point in trying to get her hopes crushed. She quickly turns back to Christophe, smiling up a storm.

“I know you two must me eager to get going, but you can’t get out of the house till I have your pictures!” And with that, she was off, bubbling over. Gregory rolled his eyes. He didn’t understand why parents got so hyped when their children went to prom. He gave Christophe an apologetic look. The dark-eyed boy only shrugged in response. Ah. There’s the no-caring boy he used to know. That’s better.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Yardale was fussing over the two of them, cleaning up Christophe’s hair, straightening a strand of Gregory’s, lint brushing them, and in general, making them both squirm uncomfortably as she made them picture perfect.

“Mother, we’re going to be late…!” Gregory tried to explain, giving her mother a gentle push away.

“Oh, but you boys look so dashing. Surely, I can’t miss an opportunity like this?” she replied. Gregory groaned.

At last, they were posing in front of the camera, with pasted-on smiles that looked genuine. Christophe even showed a hint of his teeth—which were somehow still pearly white.

After Mrs. Yardale had then pose in at least four different poses at five angles, Gregory remarked, “Mother, you must have at least fifty photos to go through, I’m sure that will be plenty!”

With an aggravated sigh, she finally admitted defeat. “Alright, alright, get out of here, you two! Don’t stay out too late!”

He nodded, and followed Christophe out the door. Once they were gone, Gregory turned, only to get a face-full of white petals.

“Oi. You a’e supposed to ‘old zem you’self,” he muttered. Gregory rolled his eyes, taking the bouquet.

“I was a bit busy, thanks to a certain someone’s short notice. Tell me, who’s brilliant bloody idea was it to make we wait, hmm?” he shot back. Christophe smiled in return.

“I thought you liked su’prizes,” he teased.

“That was the wrong kind of surprise.”

Christophe just rolled his eyes. “Peecky, peecky, peecky…”

Gregory turned to head for Christophe’s car, only to find…

“Oh, you’re kidding me…!”

In front of Gregory’s house stretched a sleek, black, and classy limo. Christophe smirked.

“I figu’ed I ‘ad to do sometheeng to make eet up to you…”

Gregory smiled over at him, and—glancing around to make sure no one was around to watch—he gave him a kiss on the cheek. Oh, his last-second magician of a boyfriend.

“You can be amazing when you feel like it, Monsieur DeLorne,” he murmured.

“Only when I feel like eet,” the Frenchman replied.

Gregory smiled one more—a full, bright smile—before stepping down from the front stairs and climbing into the limo.

* * *

The ride to prom was boring, in all honestly. But in its own exciting way. They didn’t do much in the limo—they were refused alcohol due to the fact that they were both under-age. And it wasn’t like a limo with a hot tub in it or what not. It was just a regular limo. But for anyone who had never been in a limo before, it was an alien, astonishing experience, with an awning affect on people. As they admired the materials the interior and exterior were made out of, they chit-chatted a bit on the ride there. Uneventful, but this was only the beginning of the evening. The blonde could only hope that it would be what he had always hoped it would be like. Well, not always. It’s not like his life-long dream has just been to go to prom. That was just ridiculous.

The driver opened the door for him. While Gregory accepted it with grace, Christophe exited the car awkwardly. The British boy couldn’t help but smirk. Throughout their entire relationship, he had rarely seen the sleep-deprived boy let anyone else do the work for him. To watch someone else so much as get a door for him was not only alien, it was a sign of weakness.

He stepped away, and watched the man drive off, probably to pick up some other couple and chauffeur them around. He leaned over to Gregory and muttered, “Let’s neve’ do zat agaeen.”  
Gregory just rolled his eyes, snorting. Ignoring the glare his date—or possibly his friend; Christophe never made that clear—sent him, he looked up at the sign. Prom, every single year, was always held in the town hall, which, to their credit, the decorated pretty decently for the senior’s final dance in high school. He let out a breath, and glanced over.

“Shall we?” he asked.

The teen looked a little hesitant. He stared at the sign, at the bright light, at the well-dressed clean people, and for a few moment, Gregory was afraid that Christophe was going to change his mind and run off. After holding his breath for a few second, Gregory finally let it out silently as Christophe let out halfway between a sigh and a groan and grumbled to himself, “Let’s get zees ove’ weeth…”

The first obstacle they faced: the dreaded senior prom date photo.

Status: Impossible to pass. The torture must be endured.

There was only one entrance into the prom—unless you counted the tunnels Christophe probably had lacing under the structure. And even those probably only led to a back door that would be roped off. Besides, the tunnel walls would make them dirty. Grumbling all the way, the crew of camera men had to all but coax and drag Christophe, who looked like he was about to make an ass of himself, sit his rump on the ground, and refused to move. They did manage to make him stand for two or three decent enough pictures. The two of them stood a respectable distance apart, Gregory with his award-winning smile, his photogenic face, and his extremely good-postured figure.

And then you have Christophe. They stopped trying to force a smile out of him, and settled for the least threatening-looking face he could muster.

He all but grabbed Gregory’s arm and tore it out of its socket as he bolted away. “And I thought you’ pa’ents we’e bad…!” he growled, glaring back at the camera crew, who seemed all too willing to glare back. Gregory smirked.

“Not like you were making it any easier,” he pointed out.

“Oi. I deed not ask for eet een ze fi’st place,” the brunette grumbled, shoving his hands in his coat pockets and slouching. Gregory sighed.

“Forget that. Let’s just try to have a good time.” As he says this, he nods over to a table nearby. “Here. Let’s grab some food before anyone else thinks to.”

Christophe managed a grumpy grumble of a reply and stalked after him. Now that there weren’t any parents to impress, his true disposition was starting to shine. As much as it was nice to have Christophe friendly and—dare he say it?—polite, Gregory had to admit, it was more natural to see then teen grumble and fight every step of the way. After all, he had asked a mercenary to go to prom with him, not a proper gentleman.

They picked out a table for themselves, discarding their jackets. Gregory glanced around. Most of the other groups were socializing on the floor, pretentiously holding glasses of sparkling cider in their hands as if it were champagne, acting as if they had finally dropped the idea of swag and leapt in the proper direction towards class. Of course, this was all a little façade. It was like a game of pretend—except instead of house, it was dinner party. Give these kids thirty minutes and a few bottles of alcohol and they’d look nothing like this.

Table Ten was the table they had selected for the table. It could also be known as the table Christophe picked out because it looked like the least people were sitting there. Nonetheless, Gregory couldn’t complain; it wasn’t in the corner of the room, which Gregory had expected from his brunette companion.

Feeling famished, he headed over to the buffet, Christophe all but clinging to his heels like a lost kitten, almost glaring at the people they walked by. This was going to be a long evening.

Their plates filled up quickly enough, and soon they were on their way back to the table, only to find that the seats that had previously been unoccupied…were now occupied. Christophe let out a small groan on his way over, as if to say, ‘Oh, g’eat. Mo’e theengs I ‘ate.’

“Oh, hey guys, it’s Greg!” a certain well-dressed, black-haired teen exclaimed. Stan waved the blonde down, while his ginger buddy next to him gave a tentative, ‘Oh hey I know you but you hate people please don’t kill me’ wave to Christophe. The Frenchman grunted in reply before taking his seat. Gregory sat nearby, flashing his traditional, toothpaste commercial smile to everyone at the table. As expected, Stan was with Wendy, Kyle was with Nicole, and Cartman was…obese.

“How are you guys doing tonight?” Wendy asked politely. Gregory had to admit; she looked extremely attractive in her lavender, shining dress, with matching shoes, earrings, lip gloss, and blush. It wasn’t hard to imagine falling for her several years before. What was it, almost eight years ago?

“Splendid, thank you,” Gregory replied, ignoring his partner’s eye roll as he quickly chose to ignore the rest of the table and immediately start eating. “And how is yours doing?”

“Well, Nicole and I had to do some last minute shopping…”

Gregory tried to pay attention, like any good gentleman. But one can only take so much chatter about the drama involving the school dance before he starts to unintentionally tune it out. Luckily for him, Stan—who seemed to have gotten an ear for listening to the raven-haired girl over the years—replied whenever Gregory had lost the topic. He turned to his food as well, which was relatively high-class stuff.

Christophe, meanwhile, had clammed up. He had hit his social limit for the evening, before prom had really even started. He just sat back in his chair, arms crossed, leaned back, glaring at anyone who decided to wander too close. Occasionally, he sat up to absently sip his water—he despised sparkling cider with a passion. Should anyone try to talk to him, they’d get crude, blunt responses, if they were lucky enough. Most answers were simple grunts or nods before returning back to his anti-social state.

To be completely honest, though, Gregory couldn’t complain. Tonight was his night to be selfish—to indulge himself in the feeling of being at some sort of high class, adult party. Everything about this was his style, from the formal dress to the classy dinner to the idle chatter. Seeing as, relatively soon, the dance floor would be a mess of children fist pumping, sweating, and making idiots out of themselves—and possibly a fair amount of grinding, should the adults ‘conveniently’ turn their backs—he wanted to enjoy this as long as he could.

At one point, he and a small group of his friends from Student Council had wandered around, just talking and joking around before they started to play music. They must’ve been gone longer than Gregory had assumed. When he got back, he found Christophe’s chair to be empty. He turned to Kyle.

“Do you know where that damn idiot went?” Gregory asked him.

Kyle shrugged. “He was muttering in French about something. I think he ducked out the back door or something. He kept…fidgeting and reaching for his coat pocket.”

Gregory sighed, smirking. He glanced off in the direction of the back door. “So soon, you bastard?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Thank you.”

“H-Hey, wait, I wanted to ask you, are you guys dates o—” Gregory didn’t stick around so Kyle could finish his question. Nor did he resolve to go back and answer the pale-skinned boy’s question. Great. The rumors were already starting to bubble underneath the surface. Maybe prom wasn’t that good of an idea…

Keeping an eye on the adults—though most of them looked like they were too stoned to be here in the first place—Gregory slipped out the back door. He didn’t have to look far. Right next to the door, leaned up against the brick wall was none other than Monsieur DeLorne. No one could blame him. People made him anxious. He could’ve just been trying to get out—to relax, take in the fresh air outside, stare up at the sky to find solace…

Well, you might’ve been able to do those things. If the air wasn’t clogged with smoke.

“Christ, how many have you lit?” the Brit asked, narrowing his eyes and coughing slightly as he exited. Christophe spared a glance towards him.

“And bonjour to you too, mon amour,” he muttered. He took another long drag on his cigarette.

“You know they’re going to get suspicious if you come back smelling like you just escaped a fire,” he pointed out, putting his hands in his pockets and leaning against the wall next to him. Christophe pointed the burning edge towards him.

“Oi. ‘alf of zem a’e al’eady d’unk. Zey wouldn’t noteece eef an gi’affe sta’ted playeeng ‘ecords in a telephone booth,” was his partner’s grumbled response. Gregory chuckled.

“I suppose that’s true. But, if you had to watch after the entire South Park senior class for a night, would you be able to do it sober?” he challenged. His only answer was a pained groan. Gregory found himself letting out a laugh. It was silent for a bit.

The silence was only broken when Christophe defended, “Zees eez only mon premier.” He took another quick drag before adding, “Just to take ze edge off.”

Gregory flashed him the closest thing to a sheepish smile he could manage. This, for the over-confident blonde, was a relatively huge feat. He really should feel bad. Christophe wasn’t the social butterfly he was. Basically, he had dragged the older teen with him to this prom, just to say he didn’t go alone. Half of his evening thus far wasn’t even spent with him. In all honesty, Christophe’s main job was to sit there and look nice while Gregory had a social life.

…Great. Now he was the asshole.

“I’m sorry for…roping you into this,” he finally managed to murmur, his tone apologetic. Christophe merely shrugged.

“Eet’s notheeng.”

Another silence. There was the slightest hint of awkward tension in the air. The embers glowed. Christophe took another puff. He breathed out, filling the air with even more smoke.

“You know…you could leave without me, if you want…” As much as Gregory didn’t want him to leave, he had to admit that Christophe probably could’ve had a much better time digging tunnels or training cats than sitting at a table for a solid three hours doing nothing. It was borderline cruel to box his boyfriend up.

Rather than giving the idea some thought, Christophe quickly shook his head. “Non.”

“Honestly, it wouldn’t both—”

“Eet’s one night, G’eg,” he quickly retorted, leaning over to him with a small, half-hearted smirk on his face. “Eet’s not goeeng to keel me.”

Unsure of how to respond to this, Gregory remained silent. He was quiet long enough for Christophe to add, “Afte’ all ze sheet I put you th’ough, you dese’ve zees.”

Oh.

That was touching.

It was rare to receive any form of positive gesture from Christophe. Rarer still was to receive a kind gesture. And the rarest of them all was to receive a sweet, good-natured gesture, accompanied by a smile—however half-assed it may be. For a while, Gregory just stared at the teen, wondering where on earth he had found this enigma of a human being.

After a while, he offered Christophe an appreciative grin. He leans over and gives him a small peck on the cheek. “That is almost gracious of you.”

Christophe grimaced, leaning away, waving him off. His cigarette left smoky trails in the air as his hand tossed off Gregory’s affection. “Don’t menteeon eet.”

“But in all honesty…Thank you.” He hoped that despite being unable to properly express his gratitude in words, Christophe at least glances over and sees it in his never-ending, luminous eyes.

Christophe does glances over at him. He looks as if he’s about to take another drag from his light, but he pauses to look at Gregory for a while. Brown orbs stare into his soul. The look that flashes onto his face isn’t quite surprise. It’s appreciative. Accepting. Caring. Dare he say it—loving? There was always the possibility that he was reading too much into the subtle movement. Then again, was he really?

The look on his face lasts just about as long as Clyde’s relationships with Bebe. He morphs back into the mercenary that the blue-eyed teen had known for years, glancing away and taking another drag on his cigarette. He blows out a large puff of smoke before answering. “Like I saeed. Don’t menteeon eet.”

A bashful bastard.

Gregory smirks, and reaches his hands out. “If I may.”

Christophe glances over at his hands. The gesture is recognized in a matter of seconds. Soon the cigarette has transferred itself from the darker tones of the tunnel-digger’s skin to the paler skin of his date. With a hint of satisfaction, the paler of the two can’t help but note that there’s none of the reluctance he showed before sharing one of his precious cancer sticks.

“Merci,” he muttered back before taking a drag.

“Takeeng an edge off as well?” There was a slight teasing note in his voice. Gregory snorted. As if he needed to take an edge off of this night.

“I figure that I’ll have the damn taste in my mouth later tonight regardless,” he retorted dryly. “So I might as well get it over with.”

The Frenchman let out a small chuckle at that. It was the first laugh he had heard all day from him, other than the polite, almost-too-over-the-top laugh he had used in front of his parents. He could only hope that somebody somewhere was documenting all of this.

He only took the one drag before handing it back. The two enjoyed the silence as the air filled with smoke around them. Gregory didn’t dare break the peace and quiet of the evening until the brunette had tossed his cigarette to the ground and stomped on it with his heel, putting it out. He extended a hand to him as his hunched body turned towards his well-postured one.

“Shall we continue this hellish night?” he asked.

The tired-looking teen sighed, not responding right away. Once again, Gregory had to wonder and worry over whether or not Christophe would be tempted to leave prom before the night had ended. But at last, he reached over and muttered darkly, “Vous êtes chanceux je t'aime.”

Despite his limited knowledge on the language, he managed to get the basic point. The smile he ended up flashing was ever so slightly timid as he leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lips. He pulled away just a second after it was returned.

“And I repeat. Thank you,” he responded with. He gave his hand a small, affectionate squeeze before relinquishing his grip on his hand. Turning his back to Christophe, his bright blue eyes focused on the door as he steps back into the room. The sound of trudging feet was the only indication that Christophe was following him.

Straight back into the crowd he went. And back to the table Christophe went. Gregory kept his glances to the teen at a minimum. Even still, he couldn’t help but feel the guilt leak through. In a sense, he had almost forced Christophe to come. He had recognized the money he had wasted on these tickets and felt obliged to go.

He just wished he wasn’t having such a lovely time. Maybe he could drag Christophe out of this sooner…

No. Just keep repeating to yourself. This is your night, Gregory Yardale. Your night to be selfish. Remember that this is the one thing you’ll ask of him. You can make it up to him some other night.

Once he got back into socializing, he found that his guilt was a lot easier to push aside. It was all too easy for Gregory to blend in with this type of society. Every movement was effortless, every smile polite yet suave, every gesture well-placed and confident. He was the quintessence of a young gentleman at a country club. The only difference is that a country club is missing current music with a huge base, and dancing.

He does dance a bit. Though it’s less dancing and more just moving to the music. He might be more coordinated than the entire dance team in South Park, but at least they knew how to make the moves look good. He, unfortunately, had yet to master that art. His glances at Christophe led him to the conclusion that he wouldn’t even tap his feet to this beat.

All the while, as the evening drags on, rumors start to spread about people cheating on people, make-out sessions in the bathroom, and alcoholic beverages being found in the sparkling cider. And of course, there was the prominent question of, ‘Hey, so Gregory, are you and Christophe here as friends or butt-buddies?’ Not the most popular rumor of the evening, thank the Lord. Even still, people were starting to talk.

Eventually, though, after hearing one too many compliments on the shapes of Bebe and Wendy’s behinds, the blonde came to the conclusion that the civil conversations were done for the evening. Even his friends in the honors classes he was taking—though honors at South Park were really somewhat similar to comparing a first grade course to kinder garden—his friends there all seemed to be a bit distracted. They all were watching the clock at this point, waiting for the end. Once that clock struck ten, they’d be rushing to their cars and limos to head out to the after parties. Wine coolers. Beer. Vodka. Drugs. Sex. Condoms. Everything that Gregory despised about these teenagers was only about an hour away. A quarter of the kids there left about a half hour ago. The set-up crews, clearing out the parents and securing the hotel rooms.

And Gregory would try to give at least one group some credit. Surely, there must be one social event after this one where all the kids had honest intentions and only wanted to continue talking over the possible glass of Scotch or whiskey?

However, there was no credit to be given. Because, once again, this is South Park.

With a final sigh of defeat, he retreated to his table. It was fun to play the gentleman while it lasted. A gentleman among the hormone-driven teens of South Park. What a laugh.

His partner in crime—partner—date—what was he even for this evening? Did it even matter at this point? Whoever he had decided to be, he watched him come over and take his seat. Observing his irritated sigh, he muttered, “Seeck of leesteneeng to zem talk about Debo’ah’s a’se?”

“Deborah?” Gregory replied in a dry tone. “I could’ve sworn they were talking about Paulina again.”

The brunette rolled his eyes with a small smirk. “Any chance of having a legitimately good time at prom is more likely than less terminated at this point,” the blue-eyed teen continued, closing his eye and resting his head on his hand. “I think it’s just about time to take our leave.”

“Five mo’e meenutes.”

…Did he just hear right?

His face flooded with surprise as he turned back to Christophe with confused eyes. He had to all but drag the stubborn mule by the reins into this bloody dance and now he didn’t want to leave? The one who has been doing nothing but complaining about how much he hates prom, and the formal wear, and the South Park drama, and everything about tonight?

“And all of a sudden, I don’t know who you are anymore…” he muttered, trailing off absently.

And, as always, Christophe’s face remained blank. Nothing to hint why he suddenly wanted to stay at this God-forsaken dance any longer. He couldn’t stand the bastard for being able to put on such an act.

“Take a seat, Monsieur. Eet won’t be long,” was all he said.

And now he was planning something. That son of a…

He rolled his eyes at the notion, but nonetheless, he sat down. “You never cease to amaze me, Monsieur DeLorne. I thought you’d be jumping out of your seat to leave,” he remarked sarcastically. His response was a glare accompanied by a quick, half muttered statement. “Ne soyez pas un âne à puce.” Luckily—or maybe not so luckily—Gregory didn’t understand the French statement. So he just turned and watched as the ‘dancers’ on the floor grew more and more frisky as the minutes wore on.

At long last, there was a break in the generic shit on the radio and the dub-step that left his ears throbbing painfully. A slower-paced melody started playing on the speakers. It took Gregory a few moments, but finally, he came up with the title. Rob Thomas’s ‘Little Wonders.’ A pretty decent slow song, and a God-send compared to what he’s been forced to listen to for a good hour. He let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank Christ…” He muttered. He observed the dance floor. A lot of the kids were groaning and complaining about the slow song. It was funny how, even in a large crowd, the ever-agonizing tone of Eric Cartman was still prominent. He seemed to lead the main pack out of the gymnasium—and it might’ve been the lighting, but he could’ve sworn that he snatched Leopold’s hand.

Out of the one hundred–plus guests that were at the original dance, only twenty or so remained. The only ones left were some single stragglers who couldn’t find a date or a quick lay, or the awkward couples preoccupied with making goo-goo eyes at each other as they slow danced. And then there was the one couple making out in the corner with the weird sounds drifting over occasionally.

“Like zees song?” Christophe asked, nothing his reaction upon hearing it.

“Compared to what I’ve been hearing all evening, it’s the song for paradise,” Gregory replied. The teen, still smelling heavily like smoke, chuckled at his words. Gregory assumed the conversation was over, and that Christophe would express his will to leave in a moment.

What actually happened was the brunette uncrossed his arms and stood up. He stepped in front of Gregory, and with a bow, he offered out his hand, a surprisingly gentle smile on his face. “Puis-je avoir cette danse?”

Christophe DeLorne was no doubt a complex person. But this simple act baffled Gregory beyond what he was used to. “Are you…are you asking me to dance?” he asked. His almost-but-not-quite timid side was showing again.

And with that one statement, he ruined the almost romantic air that this stranger had created. His boyfriend finally came back to him as he frowned at him, his eyes turning sour. “Zat’s what I just saeed,” he muttered darkly.

“Pardon me for not speaking fluent French,” he retorted, his tone a little ruder than he intended.

“Look,” the tunnel-digger muttered, standing straight up. “Eet’s a yes o’ no questeeon. Do you want a damn dance o’ not?”

Gregory hesitated answering. He still had no clue where this was coming from. And, glancing around, there were still quite a few people here, not to mention the faculty…

“Christophe, there are a lot of people here…”

“Deedn’t stop you f’om eenviteeng moi as you’ date.”

“So this is a date?” he asked, eyes widening a bit.

“Oui, Monsieur Ya’dale, I deedn’t waste th’ee damn hou’s getteeng ‘eady fo’ zees peeeces of sheet just to go avec un ami, now do you want to dance o’ not, you B’eeteesh cu’’?”

Despite the biting sarcasm in his tone, the question appeared to be a sincere one. After one last second of ‘What if people talk’ and ‘What if my legs suddenly give way beneath me and I don’t just look homosexual, I look like an utter fool as well,’ Gregory managed to settle on the thought, What the hell?

He smiled, and stood himself up. “I accept your invitation, French bastard,” he muttered back with his traditional charming smile. It might’ve been the lighting once again, but as his French bastard smiled back at him, a flicker of relief leapt across his face.

The two walked out together onto the dance floor. For a few seconds, Gregory was wondering exactly what Christophe had been talking about when he said he wanted to ‘dance.’ His questions were answered as the dark-eyed teen turned to him. He reached out with his right hand and took Gregory’s, placing his left hand on the teen’s waist. Gregory felt his face heat up. He prayed none of it appeared on his cheeks. His left hand fell onto the other teen’s wiry shoulders. They began to sway easily with the music.

For a while, they danced without saying a word. Gregory was aware of the mutterings and glances they were getting around the room, both from the teachers and the students alike. Going to school tomorrow was going to be absolutely unbearable, he could already tell. He was sure that his partner could hear the talk too. That didn’t seem to daunt him, though. That was the great thing about Christophe. Nothing did. And, probably for the better, the trait was growing onto Gregory as well. The two ignored the voices around them and just kept their eyes locked on each other.

Finally, the silence was broken.

“Out of all the things I expected for the evening, I never would’ve expected this,” Gregory finally commented.

“Eez zat a good theeng o’ a bad theeng?” his dance partner asked. Did he sound just a tad nervous, or was Gregory reading too much into this?

“It’s…” For a few moments, Gregory was at loss for the word that could describe this moment. He was at his high school prom with the boy that he’s known—and, he’ll admit, come to love—longer than anyone else at this school. That boy also just so happened to be his date. And despite the fact that his date had barely so much as glanced at the dance floor all night, he was making an exception to his rules by asking him—who might just be one of the luckiest men on the planet—for a dance.

There were dozens of other people who would argue for a better prom. A better date. A better limousine, a better suit, more time to prepare before the dance, an amazing after party…And certainly a better school and group of children to share it with.

But with the hand that Gregory had been dealt, tonight was simply…

“It’s perfect,” he whispered, at the risk of losing his masculinity. Christophe’s eyes widened, his steps slowing, and the grip on his hand intensifying. The answer took him off-guard, and just in the little things he did, it showed. The look disappeared a few moments later as he responded with a snort.

“Oi. None of zat ‘ea’t-feelled couple sheet. Eet makes me seeck,” he muttered. His grip still hasn’t loosened. Gregory chuckled up at him.

“Yes, of course. Feelings are for pansies,” he replied.

“Non. Zey a’e fo’ pusseees.”

He rolled his eyes with a smirk, still swaying with the music. For a few moments, they fall silent again.

Once again, Gregory’s the one who cuts through the quiet.

“All the same…thank you for tonight, Christophe,” he murmurs, smiling warmly up at him.

The teen looked almost flustered as he stared down at him, answering almost too quickly, “Eet was nothing. Ce n'est rien.” Preserving what little he could of himself. That was the man Gregory knew. He kept smiling at him.

“So, after this, what is your plan?”

“What, not goeeng to one of ze af’e’pa’teees?” he asked. There was something similar to a teasing tone in his voice. Just a note of one. Gregory replied to it with a snort of his own.

“And what, get wasted on cheap alcohol and have a one night stand in a dingy hotel room? Count me out.”

“And eef eet wasn’t a one-night stand…?” he asked, a sly grin crossing his face.

It took Gregory a few moments to piece together what he meant. In all honestly, he should be offended that Christophe would bring up such a thing. Were they really no better than any of the other couples in South Park? Was that why the mole-like student had gone through so much trouble to go to this dance?

At the same time, Christophe wasn’t one of those people who would plan things out like this. He might’ve been hinting towards it, but at the same time, the teen was understanding when he wasn’t in the mood—grumpy, but understand. Plus, he DID owe the brunette.

He replies to his smirk with a mirror image. “Let’s see how tonight goes and then we’ll talk.”

Christophe shrugged, though the sly look didn’t completely leave his face. “Eef not, I ‘ented some moveees to watch back at ze ‘otel ‘oom.”

“Already got the room now, did you?” he asked, raising an eye brow. “Already picked out which condoms you’ll be using tonight, too?”

Christophe chuckled slightly. “I neve’ saeed anytheeng, but eef you a’e offe’eeng…”

“You’re impossible.”

“Je t'aime aussi.”

He sighed, though the grin on his face was impossible to mistake. He was glad that tonight went the way it did. And he’d be more than glad to be spending the evening with Christophe.

He stiffened, though, as a new song came on the speakers.

_I threw a wish in the well._

_Don’t ask me I’ll never tell._

_I looked to you as it fell and now you’re in my way…_

Both teens frowned, looking each other dead in the eye. There was a moment of silence.

“…Christophe, I think it’s time to leave.”

“Oui. Fuck zees sheet.”

The two immediately separated and got the hell out of the school just before the chorus of the song neither of them could stand started to play.

They just avoided Carly Ray Jepsen. Now the evening was perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Awww hell yeah you made it to the end!
> 
> Leave a comment in the comments below, and you know this story is so outdated that I might be motivated to write more Gregstophe.
> 
> Probably not, I'm always tired, but we can always hope, right? Anyways I'm off to make a fruit platter.
> 
> \--Richard Handler


End file.
